


Five More

by debilitas



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:22:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21995953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debilitas/pseuds/debilitas
Summary: The sentence repeats itself in Moze’s head, so many times now that she’s lost count.
Relationships: Amara/Moze (Borderlands)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 59





	Five More

**Author's Note:**

> a commission for cat! thank you so much <3
> 
> first time writing these two, hope I did an okay job !!

_Just five more missions._

The sentence repeats itself in Moze’s head, so many times now that she’s lost count. It wasn't her commanding officer that said it this time, but his voice is the one she hears. She can feel the heat of the day on her back, see the lines in her CO's face as he frowned down at her. The smell of Darzaran Bay: coppery blood and dirt underneath her boots. Waking up before the sun to apply the eye black, staring down her glassy-eyed reflection in the mirror.

The sound of gunfire ringing in her ears, the scrape of a bullet whizzing past the top of her helmet at breakneck speed. Moze shouting until her throat is raw as she and her squadmates run to and from different pieces of cover. Telling herself that war is ugly, and she shouldn't still be disgusted when she watches a skull explode in a burst of crimson. That she shouldn't falter when the man directly behind her falls over dead.

Tells herself to fall in line, and it'll all be over soon. Five more missions.

Moze doesn't know the name of the guy that said that damn sentence. She'd been making her way through Sanctuary III, on her way to her quarters. It'd been a rough couple of days spent cleaning up another cluster of COV on Pandora, and every muscle aches in need of rest. She waved off the offer to stop at Moxxi's for a celebratory drink, saying she needed a nap more than she needed to listen to another one of Zane's stories. 

Amara gave her upper back a gentle pat, smiling when she told her she'd join her later that night. It gave Moze a much-needed boost to her mood, knowing that she'd be curling up with her girlfriend that night. It's a fairly new relationship, started after plenty of lingering glances and not-so-subtle remarks.

Then, Moze passed a pair of Raiders, sitting at the foot of their bunks and untying their boots. They were soldiers, unwinding after a long day and just shooting the shit. Blissfully unaware of the impact their next words would have for the passerby.

"...Yeah, man. Just five more missions, and I'll be getting that promotion…"

Moze shuffled to stop, stomach dropping to her knees. She recalled the last time she heard those words aloud. Just five more missions.

Every sensation from Darzaran hit her like a ton of bricks. In her mind, she was no longer standing in the hall of Sanctuary III, overhearing a soldier's conversation. Fresh off of Pandora, and back still warm from where her doting, beautiful girlfriend touched it. 

Instead, she was standing in that damn Bay again, wondering if the next bullet is meant for her skull. Weighed down by a firearm, waiting for her commanding officer to bark the next order. Trying to get through the next few days of it all, and praying she makes it that long.

She was out in the open. Vulnerable. The instincts that were drilled into her kicked in, and she took off.

Now she sits, huddled in tight corner of Sanctuary. Hidden from sight, and more importantly, bullets. Knees pulled up to her chest with her head tucked between them. Every stray noise of passing footsteps sounds like an incoming threat, and she holds her breath until they pass by. Just five more missions. She can't do this even one more time.

It's a good piece of cover she's found, and she can hear her CO's voice once more. _Good work, soldier._ She's almost completely protected from all sides, and it’s impossible to see her without crawling halfway in. It does nothing to sedate the fear deep in her gut.

Moze doesn't know how long she's sat here, trying desperately to remember what her orders are. Does she even have orders? Of course she does. She's always had them, whether they were from her father — the bastard — drill sergeants with something to prove, or her many commanding officers. A lifetime of being told where to go, what to do, to be a good soldier. An endless cycle of _just five more missions._

A voice probes through the fog of Moze’s mind, soft and concerned. Too gentle for Darzaran.

Amara squeezes her way into the hiding spot, hunched over to accommodate the low ceiling. Her face holds an expression of worry, but Moze wishes she wasn’t seeing her like this. It’s a special kind of humiliating, to be rendered useless by four simple words. 

Though Moze sees Amara, crouched in her little crevice of Sanctuary III, her mind remains in Darzaran Bay. She always knew it took a chunk out of her, but it seems she took some of it with her as well. It’s a heavy weight to carry, constantly dragging it around, lurking in the back of her brain. 

The fear, the sensations, every bloodstained memory remains dormant. Never letting her forget them.

Moze sees that Amara is speaking to her, but the words fail to register coherently. She sits down across from her, knees nearly touching when she crosses her legs.

The first few clear words come through: “...Let’s try to meditate, yeah?”

Oh, Amara and her breathing exercises. She’s offered to teach them to every vault hunter — even Fl4k and their distinct lack of lungs — only to be rejected. Moze tried a few times, managing to stay still for only a few minutes before her legs fell asleep and boredom crept up on her.

Now, though, she’d kill to be merely bored. Her heart thunders erratically in her chest, and she doesn’t know when she started hyperventilating. Boredom would be a welcome alternative. 

Moze tries to keep up with Amara’s patient instructions. Her voice is kind and tender in the way she reserves just for her girlfriend as she speaks. _In and out, in and out._

It doesn’t help. The repetitive instructions, no matter how gently delivered, still translate as commands. 

Moze has been through these flashbacks before, and usually rides them out until her body exhausts itself. Touching things helped sometimes, tangible reminders of where she is. But nothing in her hiding spot is familiar or safe. Except Amara.

Noticing that her particular strategy isn’t working, Amara stops the guided breathing and scoots closer. She says Moze’s name, and grips her shoulder with a cautious hand. 

Amara’s hand is warm and strong through Moze’s shirt. It grounds her, rips her out of the Bay and tugs her back to Sanctuary III. To safety.

Layering her own hand over Amara’s, Moze leans forward and all but collapses into the other woman’s arms. Her skin is warm to the touch, like always, with a hint of the mixed scents of Moxxi’s bar. Fruity drinks, hard alcohol, sweet perfume, and a little sweat. 

Normally, the concoction of smells is sickening, but now it serves as another reminder to Moze that she is really there. That Darzaran Bay is far behind her, far away from this little crevice of Sanctuary.

Amara’s strong arms loop around her torso, holding the back of her head in one hand. Gentle touches on her light hair, and Moze buries her face in the crook of the other woman’s neck.

“Where’d you go?” Amara asks, voice as sweet and warm as honey.

Moze grips the material of her shirt. “Nowhere good.”

Amara hums, low in her throat. “You want to talk about it?”

Moze shakes her head. “No.” She wants to forget, _needs_ to. Even if it’s only temporary.

She feels lips press against the top of her head, and a warm exhale of breath. The heat of Darzaran continues to fade.

“That’s alright,” Amara holds the sides of her face with both hands, wiping a few stray tears with the calloused pads of her thumbs. 

Moze searches the other woman’s features, finding nothing but acceptance. Some concern, too, with none of what she was worried about: judgement. It’s a vulnerable position she’s put herself in, yet Amara regards her with the same warmth and affection as always. 

“Let’s go back to Moxxi’s,” Amara says, tucking a strand of hair behind Moze’s ear. “Zane’s telling the bologna story again, it’ll help distract you.”

“Not the bologna story,” Moze replies, face contorting in disgust. Amara chuckles softly. “And… I’d rather be with you tonight.”

“I’m flattered,” Her mouth stretches into a smile, then her eyes roam around the little corner. “Can we get out of this shoebox, though?”

Moze smiles for the first time that night. “Yeah, we can.”

A modicum of anxiety returns to her gut when they first clamber out of the cramped space, reminding her of what sent her running in the first place. Then Amara curls an arm around her shoulders, smiling down at her, and it dissipates.

Moze tucks into her girlfriend’s side as the pair make their way through the halls of Sanctuary III. When Amara closes the door to her room behind them, she shuts out the rest of the world, leaving just the two of them. 

Amara’s quarters have always been comfortable and welcoming, especially so tonight. The soft purple lights paint everything with a beautiful, calm feeling, candles flickering as they fill the room with the scent of vanilla. Both women fall back into the routine of undressing from their gear, stepping into more comfortable clothing.

Moze picks out what has become _her_ shirt whenever she sleeps over: an oversized grey tee that says _The Tiger of Partali_ in faded purple letters. It’s an older piece of merch, probably worth a fair amount of cash, if it hadn’t become priceless to Moze.

“My biggest fan,” Amara teases, sidling behind Moze and wrapping both arms around her waist. Moze huffs, wiping the remaining eye black from her face with a tissue.

“Easy, tiger,” she deadpans, and Amara chuckles while peppering her cheeks with kisses. The events of the night seem so far away in comparison to this gentle moment, and Moze can’t stop thinking how lucky she is.

Amara eventually tugs her over to the bed, where she is all too happy to be. The circular mattress is soft to the touch, bedding smelling faintly of vanilla and incense. When Moze lays on her side, she can hear the distant hum of the ship’s motor through the floor, a mechanical pulse.

“You’re safe now,” Amara says softly, re-tucking the strand of Moze’s hair she’d moved earlier. They lay on their sides facing one another, close enough that their chests nearly meet with each exhale. Moze watches Amara’s features soften, tension release from her body. 

They’ve both been trained, in different ways, to be a weapon. Excluding the other resident sirens, they might be the deadliest women on Sanctuary III. Yet, here they are, hard edges softened just for one another. 

Here, Moze no longer feels like another faceless soldier that needs to fall in line, rather a woman, a human, a partner. Here, Amara isn’t the Tiger, but her gentle, compassionate girlfriend. 

Darzaran Bay is a speck of dirt under her heel now, one Moze is happy to step over. She knows she’s safe now, but physically exhausted by the _very_ long day they’ve had. Amara’s loving hand caressing her face continues to ground her, helping her breathing even out and her lids drift closed. 

“Thank you,” Moze mumbles.

Amara shushes her. “Rest.”

And she does.


End file.
